


unBecoming

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Dean's birthday, Sam has some surprises for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unBecoming

**Author's Note:**

> THIS WILL SPOIL ELEMENTS OF S2 OF BUFFY, AND MAKES NO SENSE WITHOUT KNOWLEDGE OF IT. Spnwise, spoilers through 6.11.  
> For [](http://cordelia-gray.livejournal.com/profile)[**cordelia_gray**](http://cordelia-gray.livejournal.com/) 's prompt, in which Sam's back, but he only knows they're going to be OK when Dean calls him "Sammy" again.

“G’night, Sam,” says Dean, and rolls over. He’ll be snoring in a moment. A birthday that featured the world’s largest ball of twine, pie, Chinese food, more pie, and a surprise excursion into incest has clearly worn him out. Sam stifles a sigh. Don’t get him wrong, it was good. Dean hadn’t given him his _Don’t scratch the wall_ look once, his eyes had crinkled with laughter almost the way they used to, and even though it was his birthday he’d bought Sam a world’s largest ball of twine shot glass. It’s tucked in Sam’s duffel now, next to the ball of socks with the amulet he still hasn’t had the courage to take out and offer back to Dean. Because. Because even when Sam saw that stupid dab of blueberry filling smeared across the corner of Dean’s mouth and lost his head, leaned over on the crappy, saggy bed and kissed it off, even when Dean kissed him back, like this wasn’t new, was where they’d always been going, fucked him slow and quiet and right and the only thing in the world, it had still been “Sam.”

And it’s not like Sam wants to be Sammy. He’s twenty-eight, has died a few times, and having his brother call him by his childhood nickname during sex might be weird, anyway. Weird _er_. But. With Dean, it’s always been “Sammy” when it counted. When Sam’s been half-strangled by something, made Dean proud by flirting with a girl out of his league, got on Dean’s last nerve. Come back from the dead. Only this time it seems like Dean bargained for Sammy’s soul and got back Sam.

Sam’s sitting up now, wide awake, staring at the back of Dean’s head on the pillow, and Dean must sense it, because he gives an irritated half grunt, turns over, and squints up at him. “What?” he says, then, “You OK?” and it’s his goddamn _Don’t scratch the wall_ look back. Sam opens his mouth for a sulky “Nothing, I’m fine,” because, what, it’s Dean’s birthday, and they just fucked, and he’s going to start whining like a five-year-old that Dean doesn’t love him any more because he’s figured Sam’s an adult and it’s time to drop a stupid nickname? But instead he says, “Dean, I feel . . . odd.” And he has no idea where this is coming from, except there has to be some language left between them that isn’t all Love and Obligation and Sacrifice and Sam. Like the stones of a wall.

Sam hasn’t seen this new look before, but it’s clearly _You scratched the wall, didn’t you. Fuck_. Dean sits up and takes a deep, careful breath. “How, odd?” he asks.

Sam searches for the right words, wrinkling his forehead into how he remembers his pensive robot expression. “Flat,” he says. “I feel flat. Like I don’t feel.” He feels a bit guilty, actually, seeing the panic start in Dean’s eyes, but he squashes the weakness ruthlessly because this, if it works, this is going to be classic. “Dean, I think it’s gone again.”

Dean flings off the hideous paisley comforter and surges to his feet, stark naked. Sam admires the view.

“Your soul?” says Dean. Squeaks, almost, except Dean doesn’t squeak. He growls, like Batman. “Don’t be ridiculous. It can’t be gone. It can’t just leak out or something. It’s some glitch, the wall acting up, something. We’ll call Cas. We’ll fix it. Just tell me exactly what happened.”

Sam frowns ponderingly. “Well, it was your birthday,” he begins. Dean makes an _I know that_ sound, but doesn’t interrupt. “It was your birthday,” Sam continues earnestly, “And we had sex. We were having sex. On your birthday. And, I don’t know, I just experienced, like, this moment of perfect happiness. While we were having sex. And then I felt this terrible twinge, and my soul was gone.”

Dean’s eyes have been narrowing and his face has been darkening thunderously. This time he does growl, “Sam,” then repeats it in bellow form for good measure, “SAM,” and lunges forward. Sam manages to duck and roll off the bed. He makes a dash for the corner of the motel room, giggling evilly. Dean darts after him and tackles him to the floor. Sam doesn’t really fight.

“Moment of pure happiness,” snarls Dean, “Fucking Buffy. You think you’re funny.” He bites at Sam’s ear, hard, but he’s grinning. Yeah, Sam thinks smugly, yeah, he’s pretty funny.

“I’m gonna kill you, Sammy,” says Dean, “I’m gonna fucking kill you.” But he kisses him instead. And it’s a good thing Sam’s not Angel, because that would be it, right there. He kisses Dean back.


End file.
